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Title:A Moveable Feast
Author:Ernest Hemingway
Book Format:Paperback
Book Edition:Vintage Classics
Pages:Pages: 192 pages
Published:September 6th 2012 by Vintage (first published 1964)
Categories:Classics. Nonfiction. Autobiography. Memoir. Biography. Cultural. France
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A Moveable Feast Paperback | Pages: 192 pages
Rating: 4.04 | 110608 Users | 7698 Reviews

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Hemingway's memories of his life as an unknown writer living in Paris in the twenties are deeply personal, warmly affectionate, and full of wit. Looking back not only at his own much younger self, but also at the other writers who shared Paris with him - James Joyce, Wyndham Lewis, Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald - he recalls the time when, poor, happy, and writing in cafes, he discovered his vocation. Written during the last years of Hemingway's life, his memoir is a lively and powerful reflection of his genius that scintillates with the romance of the city.

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Original Title: A Moveable Feast
Edition Language: English
Characters: F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound, Aleister Crowley, Gertrude Stein, Wyndham Lewis, Hadley Richardson Hemingway, Blaise Cendrars, Zelda Fitzgerald
Setting: Paris(France)

Rating Appertaining To Books A Moveable Feast
Ratings: 4.04 From 110608 Users | 7698 Reviews

Rate Appertaining To Books A Moveable Feast
Real Rating: 2.5* of fiveI am not a Hemingway fan. Next to D.H. Lawrence and Ivy Compton-Burnett, he's my least favorite English-language writer. This sly, arch memoir of Paris in the 1920s contains unkind and unflattering portraits of people who were kind to Hemingway back in the day, as well as some deeply homophobic stuff that reveals the author's life-long anxiety about his own sexuality. He was quite pretty in his youth:He was always hostile towards "otherness" and I suspect, given how

Ils fête dans Paris, par exemple: jauger du pénis (une obsession du Américains), un Ford avec mauvaise échappement, and the "mama of dada" (Gertrude Stein)Published posthumously in 1964 (3 years after Papa died), this somewhat scattered memoir covers his years as a young writer living in Paris. You may already know the title comes from a passage in the book, "If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for

Charming, ranging, generous, memoir of Paris, stuffed full of memorable lines ("Never Any End to Paris") and packed with the luminaries of the expat era. How weird to read a book where Joyce is just sort of around, where Gertrude Stein and Alice Toklas squabble, and where, in an excellent moment, Fitzgerald's face turns into a death mask while drunk. All along, Hemingway's first marriage to Hadley is at once extolled and mourned. I read the Restored Edition, which in some ways I regret,

I decided to bail after his visit to the indoor bicycle races, like dance marathons one of those frantic displays of recreational endurance so popular in the 1920s. A quick comparing look at Joseph Roths account of a night at Berlins tracked bicycle races, in What I Saw, convinced me that I was wasting my time with Hemingway. There are better books. Hemingways style will always strike me as more or less mannered and ridiculous, but what I read of A Moveable Feast was especially badsolemn,

I started this book calling him Ernest Hemingway. Midway, my friends pointed out that I was referring to him as Hem. By the end, I knew never to refer to him as Ernest. More please...more nonfiction/memoir from Hem, if only it existed (some say there's more that was never published??...)This book was an intimate portrait of Hemingway. I was never a big fan of his fiction: though his simple, deliberate, sentence structuring still leave me in awe, I've never really been a fan of the flow of his

Whenever a friend/Roman/lover/countryman/debtor/student/jackass bar brawler tells me that Hemingway lost it after THE SUN ALSO RISES or (being generous) A FAREWELL TO ARMS, I say: read this book. There are moments of vile approbation. It saddens me infinitely to hear EH bang on Gertrude and Scott, and some of the dialogue is transparently punchdrunk. But when I want to read a book by someone who lost his shit and knew he lost it spectularly, this be the one. There are few passages more

Loved it!Like Hemingway, I love Paris from the bottom of my heart. And like him, I was lucky enough to spend some time there as a 22-year-old university student. I remember the feeling when I got off the train, knowing I had months of P-A-R-I-S ahead, and how precious each minute felt. I remember walking the streets, stopping to gaze into shop windows, to have coffee, or to browse bookstores. And I remember reading all those wonderful authors who had made Paris their home, feeling connected to

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